Saturday, 23 February 2008

Our local MP - Angela Tripodi

With all the muck swirling around the career of Joe Tripodi at the moment, it is no wonder that his sister in law prefers to go by her maiden name of Angela D'Amore. I'm not sure how many people know that she has married into that particular den of iniquity.

I was never able to figure out how she was pre-selected for our seat, until I was told that she had been parachuted in by head office - presumably after a bit of arm twisting by her brother in law.

Unfortunately, she shows many of the signs of someone that has been dropped into the job, rather than earning it by merit - with merit excluding marrying into the right faction.

As I was driving around today, I spotted her running a kerbside stand where she was spruiking the benefits of another Iron Cove Bridge. If you're going to blow $150 million of our money (yes, money provided by long suffering taxpayers), then the least you could do would be to spend it on something worthwhile. Building another bridge at that spot is like giving a 90 year old smoker a heart transplant - yes, it might work for a while, but you could do better by sticking the heart somewhere else. You could stick the heart up a cow's bum and still get more societal benefit than opening up an old gasper and stuffing in a new ticker (at great expense).

So there you have it - building a second Iron Cove Bridge is like sticking $150 million up the backside of a cow.

I didn't stop to have a chat with Angela, since it would do no good. Apart from giving the impression that she is a 15 watt lightbulb (of the old variety), she is not a good listener. She is a talker, and she will stand there all day trying to tell you what you should have, rather than listening to what I actually want. The righteously stupid should never be allowed into Parliament. Or any other position of power for that matter.

A mate of mine has been corresponding with Angela of late in regard to the bridge, so I drove around to his place, banged on the door and told him to put his underwear on (not on his head) and shoot down there to have a chat with her. Preferably waving a sheaf of her completely useless correspondence. He's sent her a couple of letters, which spell out a certain position, and she has blithely ignored most of what he has said and responded about things which don't concern him at all.

It's like he wrote suggesting that we should graze goats in the local park to keep the grass down, and she responded with a screed about a new MRI machine at Concord Hospital. She's that far off the ball.

Unless we are now using MRI machines to look at the insides of goats that have eaten a sprinkler at the local park.

I hope a comment will appear shortly describing his interaction with the Dense One today.